Was That Our Train?

It's 7:07 in the morning. I for five of the last seven hours, I've been asleep on a floor. For one of the last seven hours, I've been walking around various French cities. For half an hour of the last seven hours, I've been on the connection of the overnight train from Nîmes to Montpellier. The remaining half hour in the equation has been spent standing on the train platform wondering to myself how I got here. Oh yes. The Féria.

Twice a year, the city of Nîmes hosts a large festival called the Féria, once during Pentecost and the other during the autumn equinox. The one during Pentecost is much more touristy and crowded than during the equinox. The centerpiece of the Féria is the corrida, which is... well, the ritual killing of bulls by a matador. I won't go into specifics, but I watched everything and, as Martha told me once, the bulls are raised in an almost lavish manner. I won't go so far as to say that their deaths are quick or painless - rather the opposite, in fact - but... well, yeah, it sucks. Still, there's a certain elegance about it, and it was a cultural experience more than something in which to revel. I think I'll stick with taureau-piscine (trying to push a bull into a pool without falling in yourself) or course camarguaise (snatching a rosette from the horns of the bull), both of which leave the bull unscathed. Humans still run the risk of being gored or trampled to death, but...

I went to see the 5 o'clock corrida, which lasted until just about 8. I was with a group of French and Americans, about eight of us total, and afterwards we went for dinner at the little shops set up outside the arena (which was built by the Romans around 100 A.D., btw). This bit isn't really important. The important bit is where we wound up playing Kings (a drinking game - although in my defense I was drinking water) and losing complete track of time, or simply not caring. I'm not totally sure myself. The game involves each of the 13 cards per suit being designated to a specific role - for example, two means you, where the person who drew the card points at someone who then has to drink, or five, guys (all the guys have to drink). The best ones, in my opinion, are 9, 10 and the King. Nine signifies that the person has to think of a words and everyone else in the circle has to come up with a word that rhymes with that. The nuance last night being that half the group started in French and half the group started in English, so it was a bit of a challenge. 10 signifies the person who drew the card creates a rule that must be obeyed for the duration of the game. The first rule was that every phrase must be ended with 'in my pants'. For example, "Who's turn is it... in my pants?". The second rule was that whenever our friend Jesse started talking in excess, in French, after drinking a conspicuous amount, and we had to tell him to stop, our other friend Jade had to drink because of him. She didn't like this rule, but we all felt it was fair and democratic. Kings signifies categories, which means if someone says 'cars' everyone else in their turn must think of a kind of car. The best one for this was 'Stores around Montpellier'. Who remembers that sort of stuff at a moment like that? ... in my pants. I'm sure the description of the game is fascinating to all of you, but since I'm the one writing, I have tyrannical power over you, my audience. Just like Lord Vetenari, one man, one vote, and I am that man.

So we finish at about 11:05. It takes us 5 minutes to get out of the door because... well, everyone except me was in various states of inebriation (a word whose spelling I did not know before I typed it just now). We walked and stumbled leisurely to the train station, and about five minutes from the station - and the moment our train was due to depart - we realize that we are five minutes from the station, at which moment the train will depart. I start to run. The other seven start to run, which... wasn't totally successful. I arrive at the platform with just enough time to see the red rear-engine lights of our departing train about 100 meters down the track. My friend Mike comes up behind me.

"Was that our train?"

"Yes."

"How can you be sure?"

"You see the sign on the monitor that says X train to Montpellier?"

"Yeah?"

"See how the sign just disappeared?"

"Oh."

We go back down to the lobby to find everyone giggling that we've missed our train. Granted, I'm not particularly pissed, since I know everything will be more or less all right. It's not like I missed a flight back to the States or that this was the last train out of town before a monumental flood swept it and its inhabitants away. Even more luckily, our French friend Alexandra is a medical student at the University of Nîmes and has a small pad there (where we'd been playing Kings). So, after figuring out the next train will be at 6AM, we return there and spread out on what little floor space there is and get a few hours sleep. My only disappointment is I was suffering from a bit of a head cold, and had really looked forward to getting into a real bed. Still, a cold cement floor in someone's apartment is better than a cold cement floor at a train station.

We awoke before dawn, and despite the lack of light I was wearing my sunglasses. This is my universal symbol for "I have just gotten much too little sleep, and if anyone makes more noise than is necessary to not fall into a crevasse and die, I'll push you into one all the same." I am not a morning person, and do not understand morning people. In my opinion, if the sun mysteriously popped up full in sky around ten AM, I'd be perfectly content. We arrive at the train station, luckily on time, and head off to Montpellier. I manage to get back to my house just as it's getting light out, and as I'm rummaging through my backpack I realize I can't find my keys. The prospect of losing my only means of getting out of the quite chilly night and into my nice warm bed where I can sleep of fatigue, hunger and cold do not thrill me.

Luckily, I found my keys, and here you find me now. Or rather, it's now 15 hours later, since I slept for five more hours and spent the rest of the day wandering about the city. It is the weekend of Patrimoine, or French Heritage, and so all the national, regional, and civic sites around France are mandated to be open to the public. One of the coolest things I could've seen but wasn't able to was the Faculty of Medicine which dates back to the 13th century. As consolation though, I've been told the Room of Specimens - rumored to contain every possible bit of anatomy you could think of including fetuses and possibly even a whole human being - is never open to the public, even during Patrimoine. Perhaps a break-in is in order...

But I did get some lovely shots of the city, which I will post for you below. Thus, I conclude what must be my longest entry to date. I have pictures of the corrida and a video of one of the bulls being killed, but I will only show them to interested parties with the caveat that it is not a sight for the faint of heart. Here's Montpellier!

(L to R, line by line) - The Entrance of the Picadors and Torreadors; the Matador; the Place de la Comédie before dawn; the Gare Saint Roch; the Arc de Triomphe de Montpellier; the Centreville and the Antigone to the east; the Place de la Cathédrale Saint Pierre (with its iconic foyer towers); the large and beautiful apartment complex near my house - formerly a hospital; typical Hausmannian architecture; the Opéra)